


on a l'cœur démoli?

by ourseparatedcities



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, electric boogaloo, singularly motivated by spite, smut & angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8089078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/pseuds/ourseparatedcities
Summary: somewhere between the past and the future is the moment when you decide. to let go, or to carry on. mehdi and miralem try to figure it out.





	

Mehdi counts to 20 in his head, in Arabic. Then backwards to one in French. Repeats it in Italian to 30 before he accepts it’s not working.

He wonders if it would be easier to breathe if he could hear them talking. Wouldn’t feel this same tension dragging like nails along the fine hairs on his arm. But behind him, Paulo and Miralem are irrevocably silent. He wonders if they’ve fallen asleep, imagines Mira’s head tipping easily onto Paulo’s shoulder. Inevitable. What’s the point in mourning something fated to be.

He forces himself to stare out the window, the vast darkness interrupted by the defiant brightness of Rome. It feels strangely anti-climactic, watching the familiar city unfurl before him. Rome remains Rome, despite all the rest. The ancient marble catches the light and gleams as gloriously as ever, beautiful. Untouchable.

His head drops against the rest and counts backwards to zero. Tries to use the trick of tensing and releasing specific muscles to loosen his body. He gets to his quads when the flight attendant announces their landing.

 

~

 

His feet seem to recognize the Stadio Olimpico even if the rest of him feels nothing. His lungs burn the same in Rome as they do in Torino, in Munich, in Udine. He keeps his head down during training, keeps going until the exhaustion slams into him from behind. Hands on knees, gasping for breath. A hand pressing between his shoulderblades.

He tilts his head, blinks up. The stadium lights flood in behind his hair, illuminate his face. Mira holds out a water bottle and Mehdi doesn’t think, parts his lips instinctively. He seems to freeze as Mehdi straightens before carefully guiding the mouth forward to his. The water is blessedly cold, coats the painfully dry sides of his throat. Mehdi curls his fingers around the inside of Mira’s wrist when he tips too far, finishes nearly half of it before letting go.

He can feel Mira staring at his mouth, makes his tongue flick out to lick self-consciously at his lips. Mira says nothing, blinks up slightly before putting the bottle to his mouth, finishing the rest. Mehdi can feel his fingers itching to touch him again, lightly, carefully, just a brush. The whole of his body tilting forward slightly on the balls of his feet. The way he’s looking at him, Mira might let him.

“Pianoman!,” a voice chirps from somewhere. Mira turns away to find the source.

Mehdi’s hands form futile fists by his side.

 

~

 

He doesn’t realize he’s following him into his room until he’s standing in the middle of it. Mira doesn’t seem to notice as the door clicks politely behind them. Then he does, says nothing before sitting on the edge of the bed.

Mehdi considers playing coy, but there’s something bitter rising in his throat, spreading across his tongue. Mira’s palms spread flat over the covers.

He’s fighting a crooked smile, which means he knows what Mehdi’s thinking. Or something. Mehdi glances towards the door, hesitating. Feels silly and out of place. Mira makes some noise that’s aborted halfway out of his throat, but Mehdi’s already heard it, turns to stare at him.

“Bit young,” he says dismissively to the floor.

Mira’s trainers are scuffed up on the side. It bursts into  his head, a flash of memory: _Mehdi insisting they go into Dolce & Gabbana because he wanted a scarf, Mira following after. They’d promised to meet Daniele for lunch but, a man had his priorities. Mira circling the white sneakers, eyeing them without admitting he wanted. Mehdi politely asking for them in his size without Mira noticing before dropping them onto his lap where he waited. _

_“No,” Mira had said instantly._

_“You can’t refuse a gift,” Mehdi replied serenely, removing his snapback to fix his hair._

_“Mehdi, no,” Mira insisted. Mehdi turned and without thought, dropped to a knee beside him. Fingers neatly undoing the laces before holding them up for Mira._

_“I can put on my own shoes,” he’d muttered under his breath._

_“You’re ruining the mood,” Mehdi had told him, voice teasing and sing-song. Still, he’d felt the intent focus of Mira’s gaze after he’d slid his foot inside, eyes watching every slight move of his hands. When he’d finished and looked up, palm resting on his knee, Mira’s face too close, he’d wondered if...then refused to wonder when Mira had leaned back, exhaled softly instead._

_His knees creaked on the way back, heavier up than on the way down._

_Mira quietly mumbled, “Thanks,” and shrugged when Mehdi reminded him he hadn’t even let him pay for them._

_“For everything.”_

_He’d bumped their shoulders together, paper bags smacking noisily together behind them._

Still, they’re both millionaires and he can afford new shoes.

There's no reason to cling to something so clearly past its time.

Mira's laugh rattles in reply like a cat's toy at Mehdi comment.

Mehdi wants to ask him to translate whatever's funny into a language he understands. Says nothing as he takes a step forward. His body’s ahead of his mind, racing through the slog of memory to catch up to _here_. When it finally does, he’s standing in front of Mira, hand poised on the edge of touching.

His chin's a congregation of stragglers at a funeral, all aimlessly trying to connect. It's not a beard, barely even scruff, but it scratches against the inside of Mehdi's palm all the same.

“He's lonely,” Mira tells him. He holds as perfectly still as a schoolboy on picture day.

Mehdi discovers he doesn't care, but keeps that to himself.

“He's alone,” Mira adds, and the words are trapped under Mehdi's thumb against his mouth. Mehdi resents him, can’t decide which him. Stops trying to altogether.

They haven't, not in a year. The gap between them cracking open like a jaw, yawning further apart each night. The strangest déjà vu of the beginning, of the past perfect. Mehdi staring at the curve of his ear while he slept; Mira staring at the back of his neck while Mehdi feigned it. Knowing he was faking it.

In the imperfect present, he’s shoving him back with both hands, straddling him in one motion.

Mira seems not to have figured it out, nuzzles forward into his chest to hide his face.

Mehdi can't see, pushes his shoulders back against the pillow.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice shakier than his exhale that follows. Mira blinks at him from under his eyelashes, coy and pretty. Mehdi shifts to grab both wrists in one hand, looming over him. The shadow of his face caresses Mira's, heavy along his cheekbones.

Mehdi rocks his hips slowly forward, testing, and Mira's lift up, seeking him out. _There_ , a sigh inside his head. He squeezes his fist lightly, before sliding up on his lap. With his other hand, he tugs his boxers down until they're caught around his thighs. His dick is heavy and half-hard when it thumps against Mira's belly. It's graceless and awkward, but Mira's straining against his grasp with a soft gasp. The whole of his attention focused on Mehdi above.

His stomach is pillow-soft and overwarm and Mehdi's head drops, forehead against shoulder.

"Mehdi," Mira hisses softly. Mehdi shakes his head slightly and Mira begs.

" _Mehdi._ "

His head feels impossibly heavy, lashes dragging against his cheeks, but he manages. Mira's cheeks are flushed, eyes wide and demanding. No, Mehdi realizes, a whimper tugged out of his chest, desperate. Mira's fingers clutch at the back of his hand, trying to escape.

"Let me," Mira starts, swallows audibly like he's choking on something. Mehdi pants, open-mouthed and wet against the jarring shard of collarbone. His nose catches on skin as he shakes his head again, sets the tips of his nails into the backs of Mira's wrist. Makes him whine with it. A tremor shivers through his body and he can't tell which one of them that came from. He moans, turns his head to latch his mouth onto Mira's throat.

His skin is moonlight pale and Mehdi knows how easily it bruises, how long it carries the stain.

They don’t leave marks on each other, he reminds himself, as he sucks on his skin. Mira shudders helplessly beneath him, and then goes still. His abs tense suddenly, like he’s holding himself still on purpose. As though Mehdi’s own desperation is palpable enough for Mira to feel.

On Mira’s throat, a perfect plum ripens into a misshapen bruise.

Mehdi grinds slowly into his belly, shaking out a haphazard rhythm. Precum smears across his skin in streaks, makes the slide gloriously wet, makes him whine needily. Mira’s wrists twist in his grasp, like he can’t bear being unable to help him.

“Mehdi,” Mira pleads, and Mehdi is beyond words, shoves two fingers of his free hand into Mira’s mouth. A sharp inhale, the hollow between his ribcage caving in. He’s surrounded by him, his skin slip-sliding against his dick, the salt of his throat in his mouth, his tongue lightly laving at the pad of Mehdi’s fingers.

He doesn’t smell the same, some new soap, some new cologne, some new reminder of everything he’d rather forget. Mehdi groans, half-in frustration, the thought clinging like a burr. His hips shove down harder into Mira’s torso, clumsily trying to rip the reminder out from under his skin. It’s not, it doesn’t matter, he tries to tell himself, feels himself right on the edge, the swooping sensation low in his belly but.

If it’s not what it was before, then what is it? What is there but the past?

It makes him freeze suddenly, dick softening between them.

“Mehdi,” Mira says, voice suddenly steady and sure. Like always.

“Mehdi,” he repeats, and his eyes close, leaning into the shocking familiarity.

“Let go,” he says, soft and low. The command underneath the words punches through Mehdi, cuts him at the strings. His hand falls away, the other slipping out of his mouth to curl a loose fist against his shoulder. It’s jarring, the way his body feels strangely out of place and purposeless. Mira slides his hands down his sides, soothing long strokes, before rolling them over. Mehdi closes his eyes when they roll over, the pillow warm from Mira’s head.

Mira's breath ghosts against his throat, gone when he slips his shirt over his head. He noses into the hollow of his throat. It tickles, nearly makes him kick out but Mira moves away. Mehdi's hand chases after, moving through sludge and exhaustion.

If he could find the words, he would use them to plead.

_Please, please be here with me._

Mira's thumb strokes around the inside of his wrist and his mouth kisses low on his belly. Like he's acquiescing the request Mehdi never made.

Lower still and Mira's mouth against the waistband of his shorts, then the shorts are gone. Mehdi gasps, eyes thrown open as he blinks down. They don't, haven't. The first touch of his mouth makes his hips arch uselessly into the air and Mira presses them back down immediately, fingers less gentle on his hip bone.

His brain blanks, then _Mira Mira Mira Mira._

Look.

It's sloppy and inelegant, but Mehdi's trembling, fine tremors like raindrops skittering on a windowpane.

He bites back his whimpers, but when he hits the back of Mira's throat, he can't keep quiet, gasping out in shock.

_More, enough, anything, anything._

Mehdi’s body twists beneath his mouth, hips wringing, bookended by his hands. Mira's thumbs rub back and forth over the jut of hipbone, thoughtless. It's helpless, instinctive. The body arching toward kindness.

Mira inhales the sharp tangy scent of him, feels it flood his mouth when he comes with a broken gasp. Chokes a little and then spits it out. Mehdi's clutching at his shoulders, tugging and Mira lets himself be dragged up.

He hasn't finished but his body sags with Mehdi's exhaustion, limbs impossibly heavy. It doesn't matter, because there is Mehdi's hand skimming down his spine. His palm splayed flat on the small of his back as he slowly rolls his hips up. His thighs part in offering beneath Mira.

No matter how much they work out, there's a lingering stubborn softness to Mehdi’s body. Mostly slender, except for the inside of his thighs, low on his hips. He tips his head sideway as Mehdi pushes at his back, pressing him down, lifting himself up to get closer, closer. Mira sinks into him, lets Mehdi arrange them however he wants.

“Mira,” he whispers encouragingly, rubbing slow circles into his back even as he slides a leg around him to get better traction. Mira feels his breath stir the fine hairs at his temple, his mouth rubbing against his skin. A hum floats from Mehdi's mouth as he chases after the rhythm again. Mira rests a hand high on his chest, fingers slotting into the hollow of his collarbone.

He feels it, the shaky stumbling climb of arousal, dragging at him as Mehdi tilts his hips up further. Mira groans when his dick rocks against his ass, slick with arousal. He flicks his tongue out against the underside of Mehdi’s jaw when he slides between his cheeks. Mehdi makes this guttural, thoughtless sound, disbelief and desire. Mira feels the moment when Mehdi’s hard again against his abs. He bites at the skin tight around his chin, tugs at the thin flesh with his teeth. His other hand runs along the inside of Mehdi’s arm before finding his fingers.

Here is his body, and there is Mehdi’s, but when he brings their clasped hands up to his mouth, rubs his lips over Mehdi’s knuckles, it’s hard to find the border between. Longing spilling between the porous surface of their skin, Mira’s heart racing against, within Mehdi’s chest. Mehdi’s lungs tightening and releasing in Mira’s torso.

When they come, they’re returning one another’s names into their own mouths.

 

~

 

He's uncomfortably sticky and there's sweat pooling in the small of his back. The stubble on Mehdi's leg scratches against his, but Mira still can't bring himself to move.

If he lifts his head again, he could find Mehdi's mouth.

If he climbs out of the bed instead without looking at him, he could find his dignity.

He tilts his head slightly, ends up staring at a sliver of his face. Half an eye, the edge of his nose, the corner of his mouth. Cheek flushed prettily pink.

He touches his thumb to his lip.

He wants to ask. Won't.

He hooks his finger and drags Mehdi's bottom lip down, willing it to open.

“Did you...?” Mehdi begins, swallows thickly. He moves his head back further to see more of his eye. Mehdi glances down at him before frowning, shoving a hand at his face. Mira pushes it off and Mehdi is resolutely staring at the ceiling.

“Did you,” he begins again, to the ceiling.

Mira pushes himself up onto his elbows, looming over him instead of the roof. Mehdi has the longest lashes he's ever seen, makes him look like he's wearing eyeliner. They flutter like wings gently stirring the air as he blinks up owlishly at Mira.

He remembers Mehdi telling him he was leaving in vivid, vicious technicolor. A vase of white tuberoses defiantly stalk-straight on Mehdi's countertop that Mira stared at the entire time. Part of him regrets never finding out what sharp twinkle of noise the glass would make upon breaking.

For months after, he could barely even look at a rose.

A furrow forms between his brows. Downturned corner of lips. Mehdi opens his mouth.

“If I had asked, would you have stayed?” Mira wonders aloud.

His hand on Mehdi's cheek, trapping them both here. The rooms fills with the scent of roses, strong and heady, after a rainfall.

It floods him in flashes:

_Finding a sweater in his closet. Saving the seat next to him at dinner before remembering. The GPS asking if Mira was going to Mehdi's house and Mira not knowing where that was anymore._

Mehdi blinks, eyes darting along his face.

_Turning mid-sentence to tell him something on the plane only to find someone else's face. Thumb hovering over the call button a thousand times. A notecard with the Italian word for forgiveness between the couch cushions._

His gaze comes to a stumbling halt on his mouth.

_The sound of Mehdi's voice on the phone_

_"Munich is. Nice, I think. I think I can learn to like it."_

_"Do you like Dubai?"_

_"Would you like to go to the beach?"_

_“Tell me about Torino. Is it like Rome?"_

_The swift pang in response._

_Nothing was Rome. Rome would never be again._

_The sleepy lilt and soft sad sighs on his voicemail._

_"Do you miss me? Because I m--"_

_A thumb hitting end._

_A thumb fumbling to delete._

"I think," Mehdi starts. His eyes are soft, like when he's first waking up, when he hasn't remembered to edit himself yet. Mira wonders if this is the face he would've made then, if the years between mattered. He's struggling with it and Mira suddenly feels like an intruder, pickpocketing his emotions.

If he had wanted to know, then he should have asked.

And if he hadn't, then maybe he doesn't deserve to know now.

Mehdi's lips part again and Mira swallows the syllables silently down.

 

~

 

They shower separately, so Mira's a little surprised when he comes out and finds Mehdi sitting on the bed. His hands are folded neatly in his hands. He has seen those hands lifted in prayer, slapping furiously at the earth, dark and smooth like polished oak, against his own pale, naked skin.

Somehow, he's still as fascinated by them, still waiting for them to move in the world with their delicate grace.

He's wearing Mira's sweatshirt. It will smell like his almond lotion, like his skin. Like the things Mira hoards away, half-hoping, half-dreading that he dreamt them up.

He stares down at the floor at the floor and Mira follows his gaze. Wants to kiss the curve of his neck again, curl the whole of his body around the whole of Mehdi's.

Mehdi is staring at his shoes, touches them gingerly with the tips of his toes. his feet nearly dangle off the edge of the bed.

“You should buy new ones,” he nods down at them.

Mira's mouth drags downward.

“Why?”

They still work, still get him where he needs to go.

He remembers that day as perfectly as the rest. Daniele giving them both long, slow looks as they sat down to lunch with their matching bags.

_“What?”_

_He had met Mira's eyes consideringly, probably caught the flush crawling shamefully up his cheeks._

_“You were supposed to stop him from making silly purchases, not make your own.”_

_Mehdi scowled at him, ripping the buttery roll in half._

_“They're just shoes.”_

_Mira had nodded along helpfully, not keen to be chastised. Daniele had motioned to the waiter for a glass of wine for himself and Mehdi had met his eyes across the table. A mischievous smile unfolding like crushed velvet petals. Bright with the promise of their own secret. Beneath the table, Mira had tentatively moved his leg forward, tapped his ankle against Mehdi’s._

_A question._

_Mehdi had tapped back._

_An answer._

“Because it’s time.”

Mira sinks onto the bed beside him, legs spread, elbows on the inside of his thighs. Hands pointlessly falling through the crack between. There’s too much here to fit behind a closed door, Mira wants to protest, but nods instead.

“Fine,” he allows. Begins to stand up before he remembers it’s his room and sits back down again. Mehdi gets up, hovers for a second like he can’t decide. Finally gives in and cards his fingers through Mira’s damp hair.

Mira slides three fingers inside of his sweatshirt, taps against his side.

“Come with me,” he asks, mostly to Mehdi’s sternum. His fingers still for a moment, and Mira figures, finally, that they’re just words. That these few cost less that what they get in return. Does not make the same mistake twice. 

“Please,” he adds. Mehdi’s strokes down to the wet tips of his hair before skimming along the back of his neck.

“Okay.”

 

~

Paulo collapses into a seat, one leg crossed over the other. He sent Pipa off to find the flight attendant who promised him gummy bears if they won, is waiting to collect. He's watching for him when Benatia climbs aboard, choosing a window seat two in front of him. Miralem follows soon after, like they rehearsed it, and Paulo tries not to laugh aloud at that. He smiles politely when the Bosnian slides him a guilty look, like he's a charity case or an orphan. He's fine. He will be fine.

Outside the window, the sun bathes the whole of Rome in her daily splendor, glowing and golden. Resplendent and remote.

Miralem slides into the aisle seat and Paulo stops staring around the time the seat rest goes up. Not before he catches Benatia's face tilting up to Miralem's, the silent exchange before Miralem throws his blanket open with a snap. Carefully arranges it over Benatia's lap first before his. 

Pipa returns without gummy bears, for which Paulo gives him a giant frown and steals his pillow. 

"She said she never promised you any," Pipita accuses. 

Paulo's brows furrow.  

"Where is your entrepreneurial spirit, Pipo?" Paulo has to stroke a hand over his mouth when he glares in reply. 

He's in the middle of winning a Pokemon Go battle against Lemina when he hears his name, perks up.

"What?"

"Do you wanna go shopping this weekend? Pianoman needs shoes." Benatia's head half-visible,  peering curiously up over the seat. 

"Hmmm?" The Argentine wonders.

"You wanna come shopping for shoes with us?"

He stares at his forehead,  tries to figure out what he's not saying. Sees Miralem gazing up at Benatia's face as he speaks. Tenderness brimming up in the softness of his eyes. Understands.

"You wanna go shopping for shoes, Pippoloni?" 

"Uhh..." He looks genuinely confused,  like he's not sure he's actually invited. 

Paulo decides for him.

"We'll be there!"

Benatia smiles at him,  sinks back down into his seat.  

Miralem follows after. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> IT WAS ONLY A SEASON!!!!, she wailed into the night. the pairing of my heart that i never expected, but boy do they ruin my life.  
> thank you for reading. if you leave a comment, i will carry it with me forever.


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